Soul Dust
by Beatleslife
Summary: Music has always been my passion, my love, and...my element. It's always been completely under my command. At my very beck and call. "Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life." -Berthold Auerbach-- Fairy tale comes in later
1. This is me

I was sitting in the doctor's waiting room. I was five years old. Some Godawful Muzak was playing in the background and I'd been whining to my mom about it for the longest five minutes of my life so far.

"Just let me leave the room until the doctor's ready!" I begged.

"No!"

"That's not fair!"

"Life's not fair Adelaide!" I knew it was serious when she used my full name instead of my nickname, Delia. Now I was determined to just to block out the music. I concentrated on the little techno beats playing something resembling "Come Fly With Me" and I hated it. My eyebrows are knit together in deep concentration and my ivy-colored eyes are covered almost completely by my squinted eyelids. _Must not hear music_, I think determined.

And it stopped. Everyone around me faltered in what they're doing, completely confused. The music was fairly loud and the silence was obvious.

"That's odd," I heard the nervous receptionist say.

"Adelaide Adams!" yelled the peppy doctor, completely unaware of the confusion in the room. My mother dragged me away.

--

Later that day, I wanted to experiment with this again. I turned on my radio and the 80s' music blared through the speakers. I concentrated on the upbeat song, I was eager to test what had happened earlier. I didn't think about anything else but the music and blocking it out. Suddenly, it came to an abrupt halt. A huge smile broke out across my face. I turned it on again, turned it off, turned it on, again and again until my mom called me for dinner. Even though I was five, I still knew that I had to keep this a secret, so I lowered my thousand watt smile to a smirk as I swallowed the macaroni.

--

The first time I manipulated music I was twelve. My mom was listening to her John Cougar Melancamp CD and "Jack and Diane" was blaring. It was catchy, but I wanted to change a little something. I wanted it to be slower, and for some reason the pace bugged me so much I was praying that it would be slower. Somehow, that little muscle I'd been building for years to stop music, slowed this down. Most odd of all, his voice didn't go deeper, it all blended perfectly. So perfectly it took my mom twenty seconds to notice a change.

"Delia, does the song sound different to you?"

"No," I answer as calmly as possible in the current situation.

"Oh," my mom bit her lip, possibly questioning her sanity.

I smiled.

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	2. But who am I

I am "coffeehouse soul" which, roughly translated, means that I play at coffeehouses for a living. This leads to the emancipation from my already-estranged relationship with my soulless mother. She's a real estate agent so me being "coffeehouse soul" is basically her own little version of purgatory. She just doesn't understand that college doesn't hold my attention. That I'm destined to go absolutely nowhere, do absolutely nothing, and make myself into an absolute nobody. She especially doesn't understand that I'm a_bsolutely_ fine with it.

So what if I'm in an ever-present argument with my mother and the entire human population in general? So I hate people! So I hate people more than I hate celery, or Daughtry, or cappuccinos (who drinks foam anyway). Aside from the rare exceptions, I just _dislike_ human beings. So I write songs about vengeance, cruelty, mythology, folk lore...anything that is either mean or completely impersonal.

But most of the time I'm just an everyday person torturing the masses. See, after discovering I could mess with live music it became my favorite thing to do. Like a hobby only it doesn't involve knitting, gardening, woodworking, or gnomes. Completely driven by my extreme hatred of people and wannabe musicians. And people.

--

The delicious smell of beer and cigarettes fill my nostrils in sweet pain as my ears screech with pleads for me to leave the room. A little part of me says masochist, but the part that says fun quickly eats that part whole. The band, From Their Ignorance (it's like their begging to made fun of them) are doing a Godawful Fall Out Boy impression (which is even worse considering I hate Fall Out Boy). With a chuckle I pull out a new trick from my sleeves, the lead singer's voice cracks with an astounding screech. He looks at the crowd, beads of sweat falling down his forehead while the rest of the band stares daggers at him. The bassist looks like he wants to taser him, while the drummer has that look that says "go play on the highway!" all over. He quickly retreats of stage while everyone else (in a true fit of diva) yells at him as they run after. I chuckle.

"Thank the Goddess!" says my feminist raised Hattie with a wide toothy smile. "Beautiful voice, horrible song."

"Beautiful voice?"

"I'm a nice person!" she yells in defense.

"Just say it sucked! Tell the truth!"

"See! This is why _I_ graduated from anger management and the judge ordered _you_ to another session!"

"Shut up bitch!"

"You fir-"

"-Bitches and bastards may I present Through the Keyhole," drones the announcer.

"I'll be the judge of what hole it's through!" I shout, which is met by a round of applause. The drummer then proceeds to flip me off as they come on stage.

Then the music starts.

And it's beautiful, and tasteful, and it just melts my skin in a way that only Led Zeppelin and Blue October and Strays Don't Sleep can. I'm a puddle of Delia on the floor...Then I'm fucking angry.

"They're amazing!" says Hattie with a wide-eyed look of awe at_ them_.

"Fuck," I whisper angrily.

"What was that?"

"Nothing!"

"Are you pissed?" she looks at me as if I've committed a mortal sin which, considering my parole officer, basically is for me.

"I'm fine!" I yell in anger as I try and concentrate on screwing up this song.

"Calm down Delia!"

"Shut the fuck up!" I have no idea how I did it, but suddenly the song was going backwards, and then, just as suddenly and before I even had the chance to smile, the song went right back to normal. Now I was _pissed_. I go to jump on stage as Hattie grabs me and pulls me back and tries to lead me to the door. I still concentrate on the song even as the drummer stares at me and I'm being dragged outside. I'm determined to ruin this song, and I still have no idea why I want to so bad.

--

Robert Plant is an amazing singer. His voice is like...complete peace and joy and sadness all in one little person. He's just a single person in the world, as old as his music is, who can make me feel amazing and bring me to tears in the corner of my apartment. Why am I such an angry person? Why am I only truly happy when I hear the acoustic guitar of someone I've never met? Why do i feel at peace when I hear the violin playing a it's song, and why does Robert Plant's voice move me to tears?

Why am I so mean, thoughtless, and...broken? Why can I manipulate music? Why is it my only true friend? Why am I so human and yet so...not?

Who am I?


End file.
